


For Your Consideration

by nairmakgren



Series: Stories of King Jon [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-12-31 12:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12132789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairmakgren/pseuds/nairmakgren
Summary: Several months after taking King's Landing, Jon prepares for his inauguration. In the mean time, Aegon comes to him with an idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a mix of show and books; based off my Stories of King Jon fic. felt like some almost fluff so I hope you enjoy <3 a note; jon and sansa are show-age in this.

The idea was repulsive; doubly so, even as Jon stared out over King's Landing. The last of his forces had moved into the capital, and he'd put them to work in repairing and rebuilding damage left over from the war – as well as handing out food and providing fresh produce. That would be a start, in winning over the people's goodwill.

Yet now he was faced with a choice that brought bile to his throat even at the mere thought of it – all thanks once more to Petyr Baelish. “I will not do it.” he grumbled, turning away from the balcony, “no matter what the Eyrie did for us, I cannot and will not -”

Aegon stopped him with a wave of his hand. “You can and you will. Like it or not, brother – the North is still a region of your kingdom you need to bring to the side of House Targaryen.” _Was this his way of punishing me?_

“Aegon, I was raised with her!” Jon shouted, his anger bubbling over. “I called her “sister” for the whole of my life and now you and that worm are demanding I marry her?! That's foul, even for a Targaryen.”

Jon still remembered Baelish presenting Alayne Stone, his bastard daughter, at court – it had not been long since the capital had fallen, the last of the Lannister host retreating for Casterly Rock. He had wanted to pursue and finish them off for good, but his council had advised him to wait – to build up his forces and coffers.

It was only after he had made the customary greetings to the girl that Baelish had pulled her hood back, revealing her red hair – and the face of someone he thought long dead. He remembered their embrace, their tears, their sobs of joy. And he remembered Baelish's smug face through it all.

“You are a Targaryen, like it or not.” Aegon snapped, shaking his head. “Act like one. This would secure the North for generations to come – a region that's a history of defying the Iron Throne. As well as your shared heritage it would send a powerful message to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms that stability will be the order of the day.”

Jon could not meet his gaze. He stared up towards the sunset, his thoughts turning to family and home. To Rickon, now safely back in Winterfell. To Sansa, now here in the Red Keep – with people trying to pawn her off as though she were a trophy. To Bran and Arya, wherever they may be. Instead of looking for them or helping Rickon in governing, he was here. A rat's nest where his father had lost his head after trying to do the right thing.

 _Not father. Uncle._ The words burned hot in his mind, despite his desperate denials to the contrary. “Sansa's been a pawn ever since they took our father's head, Aegon. Wedded to Tyrion Lannister, then almost to this Hardying character. And you've seen the way Baelish looks at her.” That had been one of the first things he'd noticed; the lecherous way the Lord of the Eyrie eyed her.

Shrugging, Aegon ran a hand through his hair. “She wouldn't be a pawn anymore, brother. Not unless you mean to treat her like one – oh, and her father. Not yours.” he said, his tone a mixture of mocking and gentle.

 _He always likes to hurt me with it._ Closing his eyes, Jon rubbed his temples; the stresses of ruling were already thrust upon him, and it was still a fortnight before he would be inaugurated. Something he desperately wanted to avoid; yet it was something he had to do, for the good of the realm. At least, that's what Connington and Mace Tyrell and all the others had said.

Aegon reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, causing Jon to tense up. “If you must know – I've already spoken to her about it. She thinks it would be a good idea.”

Jon never moved as fast in his whole life, even in battle. He spun around and grabbed Aegon by the throat, pinning him to the wall. The rage in his veins was almost physically painful; it burned through his flesh and skin even as his brother struggled in his grasp. “This is no time for games!” he growled.

“No....game....” Aegon gasped, trying to pull Jon's hand away from his windpipe as he struggled for air.

As Jon released his grasp, he narrowed his eyes. “I mean it.” he warned.

Aegon coughed, straightening himself up. “No games, Jon. Just like I said – I spoke with her. She thinks it would work – it could be a good idea to unify our peoples. I'm not lying.” he spat, a sneer forming on his lips.

“I want to speak with her first.” Jon insisted.

* * *

Jon stood before the door to Sansa's chambers, trying to keep himself calm and composed. Despite Aegon's promises of her approval – indeed, her suggestion of this ludicrous idea – he knew it was highly doubtful that he was telling the truth. Aegon had been known to lie and distort things to get his way; it was clear he still resented Jon for becoming who he was, in part thanks to his own stupidity in his duel challenge.

He'd given Sansa the rooms once belonging to the Queen; large and opulent, it rivaled only that of the King's chambers in size and luxury. He'd also sent Baelish and his men to the other side of the Red Keep, to be housed in a special wing for the Eyrie delegates; he'd also posted guards on every level nearest them to ensure he didn't try to worm his way into Sansa's bed.

Knocking gently, Jon braced himself. “Sansa. It's me.” he called.

* * *

The door opened after a moment of silence.

Sansa's long red hair was down to her lower back, free of knots and any kind of tangle. She wore a white and grey dress embroidered with the direwolf of Stark, the garment thin yet practical and modest. Her blue eyes had been so empty, so resigned when he'd first met her in her guise; now there was a spark of something in them. Hope, perhaps?

“Hello, Jon.” she smiled as they hugged, Jon squeezing her tightly. They'd never been close as children – she always took after her mother, both in her attitude and treatment of him – yet now it was as if they had been constant companions.

Sansa broke their embrace first, gesturing for him to enter. “I wasn't expecting you – forgive me, I was just getting my hair fixed. All the knots and the acorn paste – it damages it.” she sighed, rolling her shoulders.

Jon chuckled. “Don't worry about it. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but I had to speak with you about something.”

Her chambers were neat and orderly; the direwolf flying from the wall; he'd given the banner to her from the first batch he'd gotten from the clothiers from the Reach, who had sewn two great banners to hang at his coronation; despite Aegon's objections, the dragon and wolf would fly equally.

She gestured him to the window, the pair glancing out over the bustling capital. “I never thought I would come back here.” she mused, glancing to Jon. “especially after what I...we endured here. The lies, the pain – all of it. Yet now here I am.”

“If you don't want to be here, Sansa, please – say the word. I will have a Northern guard bring you home to Winterfell.” he said, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, “you are not and will never be a prisoner here.”

* * *

Jon stared out over the Blackwater from the window. There were still destroyed remains of Lannister ships scattered about, but the majority of the battle damage had been cleared in a matter of weeks. Trade had resumed, and goods were flowing back into the city again.

His musings were interrupted by a warm sensation on his hand; looking down, he saw that Sansa had placed her hand upon his. Somewhat startled, he looked to her once more. “I don't feel like a prisoner, Jon. But – I know why you've come.” she exhaled, rolling her shoulders, “Aegon brought you my proposal then.”

Shaking his head, Jon laughed. “It's ludicrous. Foul – wrong, beyond anything! I can't believe that worm would dream of something like tha -”

He stopped, realizing what she had said; _my proposal_. “You....you can't be serious, Sansa.” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “We're siblings. No matter what...what blood says.”

“Jon, you know my mother never treated you as one. I was always at her side, keeping my distance. I thought of you as an....well, an outsider, I will admit.” she sighed, squeezing his hand tight. “And now with what has come out about your parentage, stability is what this realm needs. Uniting the North and South together, well – it would benefit all to see a stable regime.”

 _I am of the North_ , Jon said to himself. Running a hand through his hair, he continued to shake his head. “Sansa – you've been forced to wed men before. I will not...could not....do such a thing. Ever.”

“Jon, this is my choice.” she said, grasping his free hand and guiding him to one of the couches in the chamber. She helped him sit down as she knelt down in front of him, the closeness suddenly causing a wave of discomfort to race through Jon's body. “No one is forcing me. You've freed me from Fath – er, Petyr – and he cannot control my destiny. I am Sansa Stark; and this is the choice I want to make. For you and me – for the North.”

* * *

As she squeezed his hands, Jon found himself growing short of breath. His chest grew tight; the pain from his wounds returned with a vengeance. How could he even truly consider this? _Why would she suggest such a thing, especially now?_ Marrying his half-sister; no, cousin. Cousin marriages were far more accepted, he knew. But – even still...”I know you said you wanted to be the queen when we were kids, but....like this?” he joked, chuckling weakly.

Sansa laughed, shrugging her shoulders – her hands still grasping his. “Life works in strange ways, Jon. For both of us. If we wed, we unify the North with the South; more importantly, we provide protection for Winterfell. For my – no, our family. Our pack.”

 _That pack is still not complete,_ Jon mused bitterly. “Arya and Bran -” he whispered, thoughts turning to the little sister who's hair he used to ruffle, the one who was on his mind – who he held dearest to his heart.

“They're still out there, Jon. We...we will find them.” Sansa released her hold.

Jon rose from his seat., helping Sansa up as he did so. “Let me....let me think about this, Sansa. Just give me a few hours. It's....a huge responsibility you want me to undertake.”

Sansa leaned in and kissed his cheek, offering another comforting smile. “Take your time, Jon. I know you will make the right choice – for the realm, and us.”

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Jon stared at the map in front of him. Markers laid out across Westeros detailed the condition and status of the realm – his realm. Save the Westerlands, the entirety of the map markers were Targaryen black. Soon, the Westerlands would be too – _not soon enough_ , Jon mused.

The attack into the Lannister heartland would wait until after his coronation – the commanders needed time to resupply their levies; in addition, Lord Manderly and the Northern host was still a few weeks away from the capital.

Even though the campaign should be the most important thing on his mind, Jon still had his thoughts focused entirely on Sansa and her proposal. It tormented him, truly; though the kingly part of his brain agreed that it was a logical decision. They were not half-siblings, as long believed – and cousin marriages were perfectly acceptable for all the great families of the realm.

But he could not shake the feeling it still was wrong.

The horrors of her experiences were still fresh in his mind; the idea of the lecherous fool that was Petyr Baelish putting his hands on her made him sick. He remembered, long ago in another time, the Queen she was going to be; the proper Southern lady, who was as close to a copy of her mother as any of the Stark children.

She was also the first to call him 'bastard', he chuckled. How times change, truly.

* * *

“Made up your mind yet?” a voice called from the door. Turning his head, Jon shook his head, gesturing for the man to come into the room. Grenn had been with him since the beginning; he was one of the first friends he'd made in the Watch, he'd fought with him at the Battle of Winterfell and indeed, was the only person to demand to accompany him to Storm's End to answer Aegon's challenge. Jon had recommended him to become the first of the Kingsguard after his inauguration – and the man had accepted without hesitation.

Taking a seat beside him, Jon shrugged. “I have to admit, this isn't the choice I thought I'd be forced to make. Marry my half-sister to take the realm or...rule alone.” he sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Grenn nodded. “She's not your half-sister, though.. I know shite about ruling, Jon – but if it's the lady's idea...”

Cousin.

Not half-sister; he had to get that through his head first, so as to make the transition easier if he decided to go through with it. “Even still,” he added, “the wedding is one thing, but then I'll have to...produce an heir.” he shuddered at the thought. Sansa was certainly an attractive woman, but...

Grenn snickered. “Don't know where to put it?” he teased.

Jon snorted. “Not you too.”

“I'm just offering my honest opinion as your sworn protector, m'lord.” Grenn stated, offering a mock bow – grinning the whole way, “and as your friend, I think.”

Jon idly moved some of the pieces on the map around. “I would rather us be out there, fighting. We still have an entire kingdom to secure, and instead they insist I pal around and wed before we march for the Westerlands. I thought I was the King, not them.” he sighed.

“Not till they shove the crown on your head.” Grenn added helpfully. “My point is that you'd be doing a good thing. Not just for the stuffy lords an' their money, but for you and her both. I'm not a man who knows much 'bout nobles and politics, but a Stark as Queen of Westeros? That's gotta mean something to them up there.”

Jon gripped the table, nodding. “The sooner this war is over the sooner we can march back to the Wall.” he said firmly, “we have milled about here in the south for far too long. The Others are gathering their might – and soon they will strike. I know it.”

Grenn nodded, keeping silent.

A tense moment followed as neither man spoke; it was Jon rising from his chair that broke the tedium.

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow – and let the man be born._

* * *

He found Sansa in the Red Keep's gardens, sitting by a large oak tree that had a carved smiling face in its bark, a crude imitation of a godswood and a heart tree. She wore the same gown that she was wearing before, when they spoke of the plan. Jon said nothing as he walked towards her, sweat dripping down his brow as he grew closer. The realm needs this, he knew. I need this. She needs this – for a lasting peace.

“Sansa,” Jon announced himself with a smile, folding his hands in front of him.

Rising from her seat, she turned and embraced him with a hug. “Come sit with me, Jon. It's not much of a heart tree, but it will do I think.”

Nodding, he sat beside her, brushing the beads of sweat from his brow. She watched him in the process, a frown creasing her lips. Instinctively she placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch gentle and warm; it still made him flinch none the less.

Jon shook his head., raising a hand to her. “Sorry, I...I don't mean to pull away.” he managed with great effort, “just...there is a lot to consider. For what comes next; not just concerning the realm and Westeros...but us.”

She nodded, taking her hand away. “The future of the kingdom is on your shoulders, Jon. I do not envy you – especially after learning all that I have from those who warped it in the first place.” Her hands balled into fists, eyes flashing with anger. “But you have a...a chance. To prove yourself above the Lannisters, the Baelish's – all of them.”

“You're wrong.” he said, inhaling deeply. “the future of the kingdom is in our hands.” He watched her eyes widen ever so slightly at his words, her chest heaving in a sharp intake of breath. The signs were as subtle as they could be; she was an expert at hiding her feelings.

It was a moment later that her hand grasped his own, offering a gentle squeeze – one he did not shy away from. “This is the right decision, Jon. For both of us – and for Westeros. We have a chance to hold the power now; to ensure no one wrongs our family again. No matter who they may be.”

“Aye,” Jon sighed, unable to meet her eyes. “until it comes time to get you with child.”

Sansa coughed gently. “Jon, look at me.” she commanded; his eyes went up, his expression still gloomy. She ran her hand across his face, the warmth again racing to his cheeks. “I...I admit, the thought is overwhelming for me as well. But it is our duty – to ourselves, our kingdom, our family and home.”

He thought longingly of Winterfell; how they both deserved to be home. “Yes, but what -”

“Shhh, Jon.” she whispered, placing her finger over his lips. “Let us not dwell on what may happen in the future. We must focus on today. Both of us – after all, as your Queen I will be able to offer my lord husband input.”

Jon nodded. “I would have it no other way.”

* * *

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon presents Sansa with a little taste of home. He also broods a bit because he's Jon.

“You can take it off now.” Jon whispered in her ear as he stepped in front of her.

Sansa removed the blindfold and allowed a moment for her eyes to adjust. They locked onto what Jon wanted her to see and she let out a slight gasp, a sense of joy rushing through her mind – fleeting, yet still there.

On the wall of the throne room hung two massive banners; one was the red and black dragon of House Targaryen, the three heads glaring ominously around the room. On the other, however was what had drawn her attention – the direwolf of House Stark in all of its glory; a banner she had not seen in many moons.

Jon smiled, turning around to face her. “I had them put up this morning. They will be here for my coronation – and forever after that.” he announced, gesturing to them. “The Targaryens before may have wanted the dragon skulls displayed for all to see, but my tastes are a bit more...simple.”

“Oh, Jon...” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. The emotions began to cloud her mind again; joy, happiness and thoughts of home – her true home in the North, not the Eyrie that she was trained to think of – brought tears to her eyes.

“No more will House Stark be a pariah.” he explained, holding out his hand to her, “especially since you will be the realm's Queen.”

Taking it, she allowed him to lead the pair up to where the Iron Throne sat; the throne's blades still as jagged and worn as they had been the first time she laid eyes on it. Jon grimaced at the sight as he ran a hand carefully along one of the arms. “The South and it's fancy chairs.” he japed, causing her to laugh.

Sansa pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it. A brief moment of satisfaction crossed her face as she saw Jon blush and try to pull away. “Jon, if I am to be your wife – you cannot be resisting my affections.”

Jon nodded, his gesture stiff and uncomfortable. “I...sorry.” he muttered.

 _This will take getting used to – for both of us._ Sansa hugged him gently, offering a comforting touch on his arm. “Don't be,” she added, “both of us are feeling the same things. I've just...become more adept at hiding those sensations in my time in the Eyrie and King's Landing.”

“Aye, that much is true.” Jon noted, turning back to look up at the banners once more. “Targaryen and Stark. You know, I remember reading in some old book on the Wall about our great-great grandfather, Cregan.”

Sansa knew the name; who didn't? “The first Stark to serve as Hand of the King.” she reported. “Not for very long, but still...a point of pride for all of us.”

Jon smiled, folding his hands behind his back. “King Aegon the Third promised him vast rewards for his service; including a promise for Stark and Targaryen to marry. That never came true.” he chuckled, “at least until now. Thanks to me...and you.”

* * *

The sound of rapid footsteps interrupted their conversation. Turning to face the rest of the chamber, Jon saw Aegon rushing towards the pair quickly. He stopped, walking up the stairs to where Sansa stood, offering a bow of his head.

“Lady Stark, I am glad to see you and my brother have come to an agreement.” he beamed, taking her hand and kissing it softly.

Sansa smiled, offering a curtsy. “As am I, Lord Aegon.” she replied quietly. Yet as she accepted his compliment she noted a worrying concern in his eyes as he shifted his gaze to Jon.

“Your Grace,” he bowed as Jon came down the platform to meet him. The pair hugged, the motion stiff and tense. “I apologize for interrupting you, but a raven from Lord Manderly.” he said, holding up a scroll. “The northern host has crossed the Neck and will arrive in little over two weeks.”

Jon took the note, reading it over before smiling. “Good. The sooner they arrive, the sooner we can march on the Westerlands.”

* * *

“I've also prepared the briefing for the other Lords as you commanded. They await your pleasure in the Small Council Chamber.” he added, bowing again. “I know you are busy with the Lady Stark but -”

Sansa raised a hand towards him. “Please, my lord. You need not trouble with my feelings; you have a war to win, I understand that.” She was no fool; the Westerlands would be heavily defended and taking them would involve a great deal of preparation and manpower.

Raising a hand to his forehead, Jon let out a soft sigh and rubbed his temple. “Which Lords, Aegon? Other then the lords Tarly and Redwyne.” The two Reach lords were among the largest host available to his army; Highgarden having pledged its banners to the Targaryens in the early stages of their campaign, after much negotiation.

“Lord Royce of Runestone and the Eyrie's army. Lord Tyrion and Daenerys's Lannister and Unsullied host. And a....rather uncouth knight named Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.” Aegon shrugged.

Jon nodded. “Remember, Aegon. The Lannisters hold important prisoners. We need to secure their release before we march on Casterly Rock.” Mors and Hother Umber had told him of the captives taken - which included their liege lord, the Greatjon – who were now being held at the Rock as hostages. “That's why the Pipers and Mallisters were reluctant to rise with us.”

Sansa turned her head to Jon. “I would advise caution with the Eyrie's forces, Jon.” she offered, peering about the chamber, “Lord Royce is a loyal man, and true – but some of those under him are bought wholly by Lord Baelish.”

Aegon raised a brow to her. “With respect, my lady – what reason would Baelish have to plot against us? He's sworn us his fealty.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. _Lord Aegon has much to learn and quickly._ “I know him, my lord. I know how he thinks – how he acts. He is loyal to no one but himself; he acts purely out of self-interest. If he senses an opportunity, he will take it no question. Be cautious of him.” she warned, her face frozen in a hardened gaze.

“Sansa's right.” Jon agreed. “I've heard my share of tales about this man and his...plots. Keep the Eyrie lords close, but not too close. Have them watched, all of them – including Royce. I want our best men on it – speak with Varys and see it done.”

Turning to leave, Aegon paused a moment. “One more thing – brother to brother. Have you decided on your Small Council yet?” he asked, raising a slender brow.

 _This again,_ Jon sighed. He'd been bombarded with questions like this from his brother since they had taken the city. It was clear that Aegon still resented him for being so woefully unprepared to rule, especially since Aegon explained how he had his carefully laid plans developed before they were taken away.

 _Thanks to your own stupidity._ “Some of them.” Jon answered, clenching his jaw. “Randyll Tarly as Master of War. Yohn Royce as Master of Laws, Paxter Redwyne as Master of Ships. Coin? Perhaps Lord Uller or Yronwood. - I know they were able to fund the Dornish host with good management and strategy.”

“Sensible choices,” he nodded. “And Hand of the King?” Aegon offered a faint smirk.

“Yes Aegon, you'll be my Hand. I always planned it that way. Now stop asking me and do as I command. Tell Varys.” Jon grumbled.

* * *

As he left the room, Sansa squeezed Jon's hand again. “The stresses are getting to you.” she mused, her voice comforting and soft. “Ruling is no easy task, Jon. The more sensible choices you make, the better both you and the realm will be.”

“I don't want to rule. I don't want any of this!” he bristled, wiping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his garment. “This was forced on me by Aegon, and he's resentful that I'm now in the place HE was! It's nonsense.”

Sansa nodded. As a bastard, Jon had never been groomed for rule of a castle, let alone the whole realm. She knew he had studied hard – as hard as he could – during his campaign to King's Landing, so the stories had said; yet it was a frightening experience all the same. “Let him be. You will secure the realm and be a great King, far better then he.”

Jon smiled, the gesture sad and forced. “I'll just be another inept ruler in a long line of inept rulers.”

“You will not.” she repeated, firmly. “You are already proving yourself a better ruler then King Robert or the Mad King before him – or of course that of Joff or Cersei.”

“I can't do this alone,” Jon whispered, squeezing her hand back. “not....not like I could at the Wall. I need you, Sansa. You know more about this then anyone. I need your guidance – where I falter, I need you to be that firm hand keeping me on course.”

She squeezed back, resting her head briefly on his upper arm. “Don't sell yourself short just...just yet, Jon. You will be fine. And I will be right here when you come to me and admit you were wrong.”

He laughed, genuinely. “My lady wife is being very presumptuous.”

* * *

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is given the duties of shouldering the fate of an entire realm. He and Sansa have a nice chat afterwards with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note for you guys; this Tyrion is a combination of book and show. Book in terms of his scheming and plotting, show in terms of his appearance - since book!Tyrion just looked like a creepy gargoyle. No cut off nose here, just the long scar from the show only a bit more prominent. Hope you enjoy! <3

Jon finished buttoning his shirt, smoothing out the fabrics over his stomach. Grasping for a cloth on the table before him, he wiped the beads of sweat free of his brow and let out a sigh, tight and painful. The servants had brought a large assortment of fine silks and wool shirts, doublets, and the like for him to wear for his inauguration – he hated every single one. He was not a man for fine silks; _give me some leathers and I'm set._

But this was not for him. This was for the good of the realm.

He settled on the last one, a grey-red mixture that seemed to best express himself and his identity; a child of two worlds. He clenched his teeth as the thoughts rose into his head once more – even now, it still brought painful sensations to his heart to accept his Targaryen heritage. To accept that his father was not truly his father; that his whole life as a bastard was a lie.

A lie to protect you. Jon clasped the belt hanging from his breeches – the buckle a red wolf's head – and clasped it up, tightening it until comfortable. He'd made it clear that his coronation would be a simple affair; nothing fancy with no forty course dinners and jesters; an absurd waste of money.

Bending down he grasped Longclaw and wrapped it about his belt. The blade had served him well; from the Wall to Hardhome to the gates of King's Landing itself. He ran a hand over the wolf's head pommel, smiling as he did so.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. It's time, I suppose. “Yes?” he called.

“Apologies, Your Grace – but the steward has sent word that they are ready.” came the voice of a serving man.

Jon exhaled, trying to steady his nerves. His stomach burned with pain; the stresses of the day bringing his wounds back into the forefront of his mind. Part of him wished the Red Woman had let him die; he would be free of the burdens of command, of trying to hoist the entire world onto his shoulders.

But what kind of man would I be? He was no craven. Jon was a fighter, a soldier – a leader.

 _Can a man be brave when he is afraid? That is the only time a man can be brave._ He remembered the saying that his father had told to him and Bran, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

* * *

The dragon within hissed at him. Not your father, your uncle. Jon bit his lip with frustration as he scowled, grinding his teeth together ever so briefly; another habit he'd picked up from Stannis, it seemed.

“Let's get this over with.” he grumbled aloud. The longer he waited and put off what had to be done, the longer that the Others had to prepare for their invasion of the North. Were it up to him, he would simply head North right now with the armies of Westeros at his back – but he could not simply abandon the rest of the Seven Kingdoms while chaos reigned.

He threw open the door, nodding to the servant who gestured him towards the throne room.

The room was packed with dignitaries; lords and ladies of every region had come to see the coronation of a new King. Soldiers garbed in red and black armor lined the hall, their helmets faintly in the shape of a dragon's maw. He even saw Unsullied standing in formation along some of the pillars in the center of the room.

Jon saw Reachmen and Dornish, Riverlanders and Valemen and those from the Stormlands and Crownlands alike. He also saw the merman of House Manderly among the crowd. The only ones missing were lords of the Westerlands and the Iron Islands; the Iron Islands had never showed respect to traditions of the south, and the Westerlands being in open rebellion – well, he didn't expect any of them anyway.

As he grew closer to the Iron Throne, he saw the half-dozen figures standing about it. The High Septon; the newest one following the death of the High Sparrow, stood with crown in hand, the old man's wrinkled face contorted into a smile. Beside him stood Aegon and Daenerys, both garbed in Targaryen armor. Grenn was also there, standing obediently beside the throne's left side.

Sansa stood to the throne's right, next to Aegon. She was garbed in the same black-grey color scheme that Jon was; a matching gift, the tailor who had crafted it informed them. She wore a smile as big as the room, it seemed; her sheer projection of confidence allowed Jon's nerves to remain steady.

In no time, he took his seat upon Aegon the Conqueror's throne. The chair was uncomfortable and cold; as expected of one made of iron blades. The room grew quiet as all eyes focused upon him.

* * *

The High Septon waddled his way to the front of the throne. “Here in sight of gods and men do we gather to proclaim the rightful ruler of these the Seven Kingdoms.” he announced, his voice croaking as he strained to be loud.

Jon felt his heart beating rapidly in his throat as the man looked to him, his blue eyes piercing and clear.

“It is therefore my duty and pleasure as the Faith's representative of all matters earthly and flesh to proclaim you, Jon of the houses Stark and Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!”

He felt the crown press upon his head as the High Septon shuffled off to the side. Jon stared down towards the galleries. _It's done, then_. He gave a single nod and rose from the chair.

“Long live the King!” came a shout from the right; Sansa's voice, he knew at once – and he grinned.

It was at once that the room took up the call. “Long live the King!” they cried, the rows of nobles dropping to one knee almost immediately.

He imagined what his father would say, were he alive to see this moment. What would Eddard Stark think of all of the events of the past few years? Would he approve? _Would he be proud of me? Did he feel these same sensations when he entered the room for the first time?_

As much as it pained him, he had to remember – this was not his father's moment. It was his moment; his and Sansa's.

 

* * *

Removing the crown from his head, Jon carefully set it down on the pillow before him, making sure not to damage it in any way. The symbol of his authority was red and black, with two rubies carved into either side of a great red and black wolf.

It was a symbol of his own status; not just a king but a king of a new era. Aegon had objected, rather loudly – but Jon simply reminded him that it was his prerogative as King, and were Aegon in his position he would have the same privilege.

Hours of celebration had taken its toll on him; he was tired, and had no interest in continuing to drink and feast while there was so much to do. The invasion of the Westerlands, the defense of the Wall – all of it, dragging his mind even further downward.

“You did wonderfully tonight Jon,” Sansa beamed, clapping softly, “handling those tributes and oaths. Very kingly, if I may say.”

Jon shrugged, staggering slightly as he took a seat in the chair opposite from her. “I don't understand why anyone would want the damn job,” he complained, rubbing his head. “so many useless details to work out, and no time to actually do it.”

His wife to be looked as remarkable as ever; her pose and posture radiated confidence and security, something Jon envied greatly. She offered him another of her gentle, kind smiles as her eyes found his. “It will take time to get used to, yes. But should you ever need any advice in the art of nobility – I would be happy to tutor you.”

Leaning back in the chair, Jon laughed. “I may take you up on that. After we've settled all of the nonsense in the Westerlands. I'd like to at least be remembered as only a semi-incompetent ruler next to the Mad King and the others.”

A silence came over them as Jon shuffled uncomfortably. Tomorrow would be the day – when the betrothal would be announced. Only those in the immediate family knew of it; Aegon, Daenerys and Rickon. He would go before the realm in his first act as King to announce he'd be wedding his former half-sister, now cousin.

“You are nothing like him, Jon.” she assured him, reaching a hand over and taking his hand, “much is said in the stories about the Targaryen madness, but that was due to their...practices of marrying brother and sister together. You are not the product of such.”

_Thank the gods for that._

“I've already told the High Septon that we will do a proper ceremony with the Most Devout upon the conclusion of the Westerlands campaign.” Jon explained, looking to the window. “for now, we'll make do with the godswood in the Red Keep.”

Sansa nodded. “Is that wise? Angering the Faith -”

“Bugger the Faith,” he scoffed, offering a tiny smirk. “my gods have always been the Old Gods – as have yours, as a Stark of Winterfell. No amount of pleading will force me to accept the Seven; even if we must perform our ceremony before their statues.”

A knock at the door interrupted his rant. “Pardon, Your Grace – Lord Tyrion wishes a word.” came the guard's voice.

“Send him in.” Jon replied.

Tyrion looked handsome, in a strange sort of way. The Lannister lord wore a garb of red and yellow, a cape that appeared to be the size of a small child's curtain trailing behind him. The scar across his face was still the same; hideously red and nearly glowing – a war wound, Jon had understood. Yet his eyes were full of both cunning and generosity.

“Your Grace,” he bowed, offering a sincere smile, “my congratulations upon your coronation. May you and yours reign for a thousand thousand years.”

Jon smothered a laugh, shaking his head. “You don't need to be all formal. We're not in public.” he offered.

* * *

 

The dwarf's eyes moved to Sansa's as he stepped forward, taking her hand and planting a gentle kiss upon it. “And Lady Sansa, you look as radiant as always.” he beamed, “truly, the two of you will make for a wonderful match.”

Sansa offered her own smile towards her former husband. “I am glad you approve, my lord. And I am also glad to see you, alive and unharmed again.”

The pair had been forced to wed by Cersei, the ceremony uncomfortable and humiliating for them both. Jon had heard the details from the man himself after he had arrived with Daenerys's fleet. He held no hatred for Tyrion; he was just as much a victim as Sansa.

Yet it troubled him to learn that the news of the betrothal had already been leaked; if only to others of the nobility. “I'd...ask how you learned of the news, but I know I would get nowhere with that.” he japed, “though I suspect a certain spider was involved.”

For his part, Tyrion offered a sincere-seeming face of puzzlement. “I know nothing of what you speak, Your Grace. Why, I would be offended if you were insinuating that I had spied on my lord sovereign.” The corners of his mouth twitched, as he suppressed a smile.

“Better he knows then some others, Jon.” Sansa assured him, squeezing his hand for support. “Tyrion has always been positively disposed towards us. He was kind to me and had no reason to be during our...nuptials.”

“Ah! And that is why I have come here.” the dwarf beamed, clapping his hands together. “I've spoken with the High Septon as you asked, Your Grace.”

It was a delicate task – as much as Jon loathed the politicking of the South, he had to walk a fine line with the Faith. Having been damaged by the Poor Fellows and Warrior's Sons movements, the Seven had to be bargained with in a cautious and assuring manner by the new monarch. “And? Any progress?”

Tyrion hopped up onto one of the chairs, settling in comfortably. “Of course, His High Holiness reminded me that there was no such thing as an annulment in the eyes of the gods – given two hearts bound together as one is a contract between us and is true and final.”

* * *

Jon felt his teeth clench as a silence descended over the trio like a dark cloud.

“...yet I explained to him the stresses and pressure by the previous monarchy to force Sansa and I to bind our hearts together had to be a forced coupling, something that the Seven would never tolerate, even in the holiest sanctity of marriage.” Tyrion continued. He seemed to relish the tension, Jon noted, “and made mention that if the Faith annulled this marriage, it would revoke a sorrowful act from the eyes of the gods and give them the praise of a grateful monarch.”

He exhaled, unable to stop his mouth from contorting into a smirk. “It would indeed.”

“...exactly the thoughts of His High Holiness. As of tonight, before the eyes of gods and men the marriage of Tyrion of the House Lannister and Sansa of the House Stark has been annulled; it never happened.” Tyrion explained, smiling towards Sansa.

For her part, she allowed a small smile to curl on her lips. Jon saw her body relax; clearly it was a source of tension and anxiety for her despite her words to the contrary. “I am...most relieved. This will allow us to move forward with the wedding, Jon.”

Jon felt a mix of emotions; he was of course happy, for both Tyrion and Sansa to be freed of the bonds of a false marriage. From a political point, it would mean that no one would be able to contest the legitimacy of his own wedding to Sansa. Yet he also felt that same dark nervousness clawing its way up from his stomach – _you're marrying your sister, you vile and disgusting man._

It would take him some time to tame that dragon.

* * *

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa talk and plot and fluff.

Jon woke slowly, struggling to clear the haze of fatigue from his eyes. A gentle sunrise was making its way through the windows of his chamber, and he moved to sit up in the bed – before he realized his arm had a pair of hands wrapped around it.

Turning to his left he saw that Sansa was holding onto him in her sleep, her body nuzzled close to his own. It was not a seductive gesture by any means; it more or less seemed that she was seeking protection in his arms.

The announcement of their betrothal had been sent out by raven to every city, keep and holdfast by now – and it was Sansa's idea that they begin practising for life as husband and wife by sleeping in the same bed. The intricacies of physical touch was still something he was not used to with her; it took some getting used to the feelings of discomfort.

Jon grasped her hands softly and gently pried his arm free, sitting up on the side of the bed. He stared down at the floor, drawing in several sharp breaths. In the corner of the room nearest the window Ghost let out a soft snort as he slept, the direwolf twitching ever so slightly. He had taken to sleeping in Jon's chamber recently – usually, he preferred to prowl the corridors of the Red Keep – and his presence was a great comfort.

“Good morning Jon,” Sansa whispered sleepily from the bed. “is it time to face the day yet?” Her voice was muffled and distorted; clearly she was still not fully awake.

Turning back to her, he grasped one of her hands and patted it softly. “Not yet, Sansa. You stay here and rest.” he assured quietly, “no one will be able to hurt you here. I promise – no more lies, hurts, or abuse. I swear, by the old gods and new.”

He was still planning his next move against Baelish – Varys had reported his little birds were now tailing several of the man's own spies in Jon's court – but the mere thought of the man angered him to such a degree it frightened him at times. Yet, the man was powerful; as Lord Protector of the Vale, he had friends in high places – the wrong move could be disastrous.

Rising from the bed, Jon grasped his robe from the wall and threw it on, wrapping it about his person quickly. The red and black pattern still struck a stark contrast to much of his clothing, but as Aegon's adviser Connington had explained, the robe was made for a King – in that case, Aegon – thus, he was bound to look the part sometimes.

* * *

Opening the door to his chambers, he stared out into the hallway.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” came the voice of the guard.

Jon nodded. “Ser Barristan.”

The legendary knight of the Kingsguard had come back to Westeros with Daenerys's fleet – and he had been one of the main commanders in Jon's brief but successful war with his aunt over the succession of House Targaryen. Yet now, he served loyally as Daenerys had commanded.

The elder man kept his pose, rigid and stiff as he scanned the hall for threats. “Nothing to report. The night was still and quiet, much as I prefer.” he offered with another curt nod. “Are you and the Queen well rested?”

“I'd like to think so. Sansa's still asleep.” he noted.

Selmy turned to Jon, his gaze uncomfortable and clearly off-putting. “If I may, Your Grace – she seems happy. I am glad to see that; I was here when Lord Eddard was executed and shortly after. The way Joffrey treated her – appalling.”

Jon scowled, clenching his jaw. “Those who have hurt her – they have, or will pay the price for their crimes. I will make sure of it, Ser.” he hissed. “Including those who believe themselves friends of the crown – false friends.”

The knight appeared thoughtful a moment. “Be careful how loud you proclaim that, Your Grace. False friends may lurk around every corner – that is what makes them so.” he warned, patting his sword, “yet no matter who may plot and scheme against the Iron Throne, you will have my blade to defend you and yours just as I did your father.”

 _Yet you stood by while my real father's head was lopped off._ “I appreciate your loyalty, Ser. But you can tell Daenerys that she does not need to send her trusted adviser and defender to my side for the sake of playing tribute.” he expressed with a sigh, “If you wish to return to Dragonstone, please -”

Selmy shook his head. “I remain because it is my duty, Your Grace. You are the King and I am of the Kingsguard. Princess Daenerys understands that and has given me leave to do my duty and guard the Iron Throne and he whom sits upon it.”

“If you wish.” Jon conceded with a shrug. He stepped back inside the room, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

By this time Sansa was sitting up in the bed, looking to him with her brows raised. “Jon?” she asked him, “what is it? You seem troubled.”

Jon sat down on the edge of the bed, placing a chaste kiss to Sansa's cheek. “Good morning to you too,” he whispered. “I'm alright. Just...there is much to do today. I have to meet with the men I'll be putting on the Small Council and persuading them to accept my offer.”

Sansa grasped her robe from the nightstand beside her, wrapping it about herself. “The men you've spoken of seem to be good choices, Jon. I know that Lord Royce will be a worthy Master of Laws – he is quite well known in the Vale as a leal and honest man.”

A smirk played on his lips. “That's why I'm putting him there. It'll frustrate Baelish to no end.”

It would be foolish to think Royce could defeat the man alone – but with well placed allies in court acting as buffers for those men loyal to Baelish, it would be far easier to move against him when the time came.

Sansa squeezed Jon's hand tightly, her eyes widening at his words. “Jon, please. You have to be careful of him. I've lived with him, acted for him – I know how he thinks. If you underestimate him it will lead to your downfall.” she warned.

Jon nodded. “I know, Sansa. Which is why I'll need your help if we are going to defeat him. You said it yourself – you know him best.” he replied, squeezing her hand back. “Once Casterly Rock is in our hands, we will move against him. I didn't just fight on the Wall – I had to dip into scheming and plotting myself.” he grinned sheepishly.

The pair sat in the bed, holding hands tightly. A moment of silence grew between them, their eyes glancing back and forth somewhat uncomfortably. Thankfully, Sansa broke the pause after only a few brief moments. “I would be glad to help, Jon. The man is....uniquely vile.” she spat, a sneer of disgust growing on her face.

“Then it's settled. When we return from the Westerlands, Baelish's fall will begin.”

* * *

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baelish plots and compliments while Jon watches the arrival of the Stark host to King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did baelish justice here. i always get nervous writing him.

The Stark host sent to Jon's command filed into the city through the Gate of the Gods, the northern banners flying proudly in the breeze as they did so. Smallfolk turned out to watch them enter, varying looks of curiosity and fear upon the faces.

For Jon, it was a welcome sight. He watched from the battlements of the Red Keep as they advanced through the chaotic streets. Though it was only some five thousand strong, the fact that Rickon had been able to send any men at all was a good sign; _at least this will be quick_ , he mused.

Scouts reported the Lannister host in the Westerlands numbering some thirty thousand, with both Lannisport and Casterly Rock bearing the brunt of those forces. Even with his army from the other kingdoms Jon did not want to take any chances – Cersei Lannister was a cunning and unstable woman, likely as not to sacrifice her entire people for a chance of retaining power.

“About time they got here,” Aegon observed from beside him. “you managed to make the journey south in...what? Half the time? Still, at least they've come. Now we can turn our sights to actually marching.”

It took Jon a moment to not roll his eyes; still, Aegon was correct – with the last of the host assembled they could begin the invasion proper. “We're still working out a plan with this Lord Stokeworth...I aim to rescue the hostages held in Casterly Rock before we attack.”

“A waste of time!” Aegon grumbled, shaking his head. “They're dead anyway, Jon. We can do nothing to help them. I sympathize that they are your fellow northerners, but -”

From their left, someone coughed. Both men paused and turned towards the sound. “Apologies, my lords. I was told I could find you up here.” came the greeting as Petyr Baelish offered a respectful nod to the pair.

* * *

Instinct made Jon squeeze his hands tight to the marble; this was the last man he wanted to see. “Lord Baelish.” he offered a nod of his own, managing to disguise the contempt in his voice; but just barely, “no apologies needed.”

The lord of the Eyrie stepped carefully to Jon's left, the same smug smile plastered upon his face. “An impressive sight, are they not?” he chattered, his gaze going to the Stark host. “The armies of the North, united with that of the south – at the behest of a southern king.”

 _He is playing mind games,_ Jon knew. _Do not give him the satisfaction._ Still, he seethed at the man's words. “They are impressive, aye. Lead by a king who rules in the South, however; not one of the south.” Jon retorted, the anger bubbling inside of him – a heat threatening to burst his heart at any moment.

If he had any reaction to Jon's words, it did not show on his face. “Of course, Your Grace – I do apologize. And you, Prince Aegon -” Baelish added, raising one eyebrow, “- it is good to see that the sons of Rhaegar Targaryen are working effectively together. I did not know your father, but from what I can ascertain he would be proud.”

Aegon shrugged in reply. “We are of House Targaryen, my lord. The blood of the dragon flows within our veins; even if my dear brother wishes to deny it. Still, we've both seen our duties through thus far and will further – right after we capture the Rock from the Lannisters.”

 _You damned fool._ “I meant to thank you, Lord Baelish.” Jon blurted out, turning to face the men. “Sansa and I...we have finalized our arrangement for the wedding. It was only through you that it was made possible.” Aegon knew little of how this man operated; indeed, any hint of tension between the siblings would only give him more malleable flesh to dig his claws into. “Once we return victorious from the Westerlands, we shall wed in the throne room.”

Baelish smiled at that, wide and full of false sincerity. “I am most pleased to hear it, Your Grace. Sansa...she has endured a great deal from the men in her life since the day Eddard Stark was executed; yet I always knew she was bound to marry and become Queen one day, just as Catelyn had promised.” he described, folding his hands together.

“She is grateful for your protection and your guidance.” Jon added, careful to keep his tone neutral.

“Bah, think nothing of it.” he insisted, shaking his head softly. “I was honor bound to help the Stark in Winterfell return home. Now, not only has she done so but she will soon ascend to the apex of power itself. I would say that I have done nothing but open the door – it was she who stepped through it.”

Aegon turned and started towards the ladder leading down to the keep. “If you'll excuse me, I should receive our guests proper. Jon, I will bring this Lord Manderly to the throne room for you to meet with when finished here.” he bowed, offering a nod.

* * *

As Aegon's footsteps faded from hearing, Baelish patted Jon's shoulder, causing him to flinch. “I must confess, Your Grace – I am surprised you continue to utilize him. It is clear he resents you for what he views as a stolen birth-right.” he observed with a frown.

In truth, Jon had asked himself the same questions. Yet it was he who had claimed the crown of Westeros – forced upon his head by Aegon, after his foolish stupidity in his challenge – and he must claim every hard choice. “He's a capable commander, my lord. A King would be foolish to turn away men of such persuasions when he is trying to put the nation back together.”

“Speaking of men of persuasion, Your Grace – I understand you have named Lord Royce as Master of Laws.” Baelish said, nodding his head. “A wise choice; I feel that he would be an excellent justice for the realm.”

Even as he spoke Jon took note of the briefest flash of anger in the man's cold eyes – it was almost instantaneous, but he saw it – and fought back the urge to smile. “I am glad you approve.” he remarked quickly, turning to the ladder. “but if you will excuse me, my lord – I should go and meet Lord Manderly lest I anger him.”

As Jon descended the ladder he smiled to himself. The plan was in motion – and his army had yet to step foot into Lannister territory.

* * *

He found Sansa where she had instructed him to be; in the gardens just above the royal apartments. She looked radiant as always; her gold and grey dress fluttering softly in the wind as she tended to a group of flowers.

“I am impressed, my dear Sansa.” Baelish whispered as he stepped behind her, running a hand down her back. “not only have you managed to convince our dear naive Jon to go against his so-called 'values', but have him eating out of your hand.”

Sansa turned around, goosepimples rising on her skin where she had been touched. She did her best to smile, keeping the disgust from washing forth; being Alayne for so long had enabled her to keep the emotions involved with the truth buried within. “Your words are bold, Lord Baelish.” she observed coyly. “Such talk is dangerous to the wrong ears.”

He grinned. “I know not what you speak, my lady.” Baelish held a hand to his heart, feigning surprise. “I am simply making an observation of the King, long may he reign.”

 _Of course you are._ She knew his game – well placed words here, snide comments there and soon, the Red Keep would tear itself apart in an imaginary search for conspiracies and coups. “Once the King completes the conquest of the Westerlands, the wedding shall take place as planned.” she added, folding her hands behind herself.

Another shiver as his hand brushed across her cheek. “How far you've come, my sweet.” he cooed, fingers running a circle around her chin, “the realm will cheer with delight for the new, beautiful and radiant Queen.”

“You flatter me, my lord.” she whispered, gripping her hands behind her bottom. Bile rose in her throat for every moment his hands lingered upon her face. “yet the King shall have a long and prosperous reign, and I shall give him a son to follow.”

“Mmm – you shall indeed.” he remarked, shrugging his shoulders idly. “yet, the monarchy has been so unstable these past years. King Robert, then King Joffrey, King Tommen – and now King Jon.” Baelish's eyes leered at her; Sansa swore she saw faint traces of saliva on the corner of his lips.

She had to play his game – to make the next move. “It would have been King Aegon, but -”

He raised a finger to her lips. “...but the dear prince was foolhardy and rushed headlong to challenge the King; a resounding and humiliating decision on his part. It is such a shame...every day he is reminded more and more of his stupidity.”

Baelish stepped away, pacing back and forth between the small shrubs. Sansa kept her eyes on him, studying the casual way he carried himself – a man full of secrets, yet so carefree and supportive – as he examined some of the winter roses. “Aegon had his chance at the throne, and he lost it.” she added, firmly. “The matter is settled.”

“Of course. But should – Seven forbid – something happen to our King before he fathers an heir, whom should succeed him?” Baelish shook his head, stepping up close to her once more, his hot breath upon her back. “and who would tend to the new King as Queen?”

Sansa felt her brow grow hot with sweat. “I suppose he would wed Daenerys – given the Targaryen propensity for incestuous couplings.”

Within moments he was at the door to the Keep, his eyes still lingering on her. “Daenerys – strong and wise as she is – would not be able to give the King leal council as he would need. She has been away from Westeros for too long, governed in foreign lands. The people would need a native ruler. A native Queen. _A child of winter_.”

In a flash he was gone, leaving her alone to ponder his words.

* * *

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and his lords plot the invasion of the Westerlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a bit of non-jonsa intermission here. next chapter will get more explicit as mentioned. :p

“We know that both Lannisport and Casterly Rock are going to have the largest concentration of defenders. That much is obvious,” Jon noted, gesturing to the map – both cities holding large numbers of lion markers to denote their strength. “but I mean to draw off at least some of them with attacks on other key locations.”

From his right, Randyll Tarly folded his arms and nodded, his gruff expression remaining affixed to his face. “A sensible plan, Your Grace. Yet the Lannister forces will not break as easily from two well-fortified areas.”

“My sister's made yet another grievous error as befitting someone of her intellect,” Tyrion japed, offering a lopsided grin. “she's chosen to ignore the entirety of the map save for the two cities mentioned above. That will be her undoing, my lord.”

* * *

The logistics for the invasion were now underway – every army sworn to the Iron Throne was here now, ready to tear down the last influence of the House of Lannister once and for all. Yet, this had to be done the right way – else it would simply lead to more chaos the realm could ill afford.

Jon needed them all. From the Tarlys and their gruff militarism to the Lannisters and their ruthless expansion – every man lost was another less soldier to combat the Others and their army when the time came. As he stared at the map, Jon was already thinking of ways to protect the various castles on the Wall...

“Your Grace?”

A gentle hand on his shoulder from Yohn Royce startled him from his planning. “Apologies, my lords. Continue.” he gestured, waving a hand to them.

Royce nodded, pointing to the Rock. “Given the large amounts of levies that the Lannister army holds, would it not be more prudent a venture to try to sway some of the more...reluctant houses of the West to our side?”

It would be a good idea – winning over one's enemies was a skill a King needed to possess – but did they have the time? The effort? “The Lannisters rule with fear, especially now that Tywin Lannister is dead. We can use that to our advantage, I think.” Jon offered. “We've already sent ravens to every major hold-fast in the Westerlands – and have had one response.” he finished, holding up a sheaf of parchment.

The assembled looked impressed and intrigued. “It seems Lord Gawen Westerling of the Crag wishes to meet to discuss terms of his submission.” Jon explained, placing the sheaf onto the map. “I mean to ride there at once to settle the arrangement personally.”

* * *

From the far end of the table, Wyman Manderly sputtered with shock. “I...I must advise against that, Your Grace! We all know what happened when a southern house offered peace and hospitality before – I, we cannot make the same mistake again.” he pleaded, his chins jiggling with every word.

“I must concur with the Lord Manderly.” Randyll Tarly warned, his eyes glaring to the map.”Were you to ride into enemy lands, Your Grace – it would be more likely that you would not return. These Westerlings are as likely to sell you to the Lannisters as they are to cut your throat.”

Tyrion laughed, his sound harsh and bitter. “The Westerlings – always a name that commanded respect. At least, once before – the histories speak of their ancient blood, back before the Andals came. It is said the Crag once rivalled Casterly Rock in wealth. Now, reduced to begging for scraps at the table; first from my own lord father, then from my lady sister. I find the irony palpable.”

At the far right end of the table – seated directly across from the two Reachmen – Lord Harmen Uller sat with a frown on his wizened face. “It may be a risk worth taking.” he offered after a long pause, “buying off the various vassals of the Lannister host would send a powerful message to Cersei that she is not a leader they wish to follow.”

Jon waved his hand, commanding them to silence. “I know the risk, my lords. I would be foolish to ride for the Crag alone – I will take five hundred men along with me. In addition, Lord Stokeworth has offered to accompany me and I plan to accept.” He had read the history, especially of the last few years; Robb had married Jeyne Westerling instead of the Frey girl he had been betrothed to; the resulting violation had ended in his death.

Tyrion looked at the map thoughtfully. “If this were not a trick, having the Crag would allow us to launch further strikes into other territories. Ashmark would be within striking distance, and we would have control of the roads leading to Castamere and it's gold mines.”

Lord Paxter picked up one of the ship markers as he glanced to the halfman ever briefly. “How could we know that Cersei would not have the entire coast under patrol? There would be no way to sneak a cog or galleon in there long enough to get you to the Crag, Your Grace.”

“I do not plan to travel there by sea.” Jon said, pointing to the Golden Tooth. “We will march through the Golden Tooth. The rest of the army will set up camp there and the surrounding areas, making the enemy believe that this is our main attack. Whilst that is in play, I will ride for the Crag.”

 _Another war to wage,_ Jon sighed to himself as the men filed from the room.

Were the situation ideal, the entire combined force from all of the Seven Kingdoms would already be on the Wall, manning the various castles and preparing for the Others. Instead, he found himself having to put out several smaller fires at once before any plan could be made against the main inferno.

* * *

“The Crag will listen to reason.” he sighed.

It was only then that Jon noted Lord Uller still sat in his chair, watching the King with a smile. “We can only hope, Your Grace.” he offered quietly. “As treacherous as westermen are, they value their own skin far more.”

“Will you lead the Dornish force, my lord?” Jon asked. He was not sure of the arrangement for the southern army; that was Aegon's preferred assignment, given how fond Prince Doran and the Martells were of him.

Uller shook his head. “No, I am too old to be waging war, Your Grace. I will remain here and tend to our coffers while my brother Ser Ulwyck does the commanding. He is a smart and savvy man, and will not let you down.”

 _The army marches in a fortnight_ , Jon knew.

His thoughts turned to Sansa – in the morrow, they would wed beneath the “godswood” in the Red Keep. It was decided that they would incorporate the bedding into that part of the ceremony so as to keep prying eyes away during the public one. A shudder ran up his spine at the thought; yet he would do his duty all the same. _A King must have an heir,_ that was the basic idea.

Gods be good – be they old or new, Sansa would fall pregnant and give birth to that heir the first night, and he need never defile her in such a way again.

* * *

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa are married in the "godswood" of the Red Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bedding comes next I promise!!!

His hands were trembling as he finished buttoning his shirt. Opening the door leading out of his chambers, he nodded to Grenn and began to walk towards the godswood, his steps slow and methodical. Every footstep echoed in his head, as the rational part of his brain told him to abandon this folly and cancel the wedding now.

But Jon could not. Just as he did when he was crowned as King, he needed to put aside his own feelings for the good of the realm. _The realm_ , he thought bitterly. _I never wanted this – any of it._ He was content to remain in the North, where his family was.

Life did not work that way, however. This was the lot that he had drawn – and now he must endure the stresses and pain the best he could for the sake of every living soul in the Seven Kingdoms. He had to be better then the last kings; to leave a lasting legacy for the Targaryens to continue following.

Within moments the pair reached the godswood. The torches burnt brightly nearest the heart tree yet the yard was empty. Good, Jon thought. Just as planned. There would only be one witness to the wedding and that was Grenn.

“You nervous?” the Kingsguard asked him as they stepped up to beside the torches.

Jon rubbed his hands against his tunic. “Only a little,” he chuckled softly, “after all, we've faced far worse things then girls up on the Wall, haven't we?” The pair nodded in silence for a moment, Jon's eyes glancing to the ground.

Grenn reached out and patted his shoulder. “You're doing this for the good of the people. And Sansa, don't forget that one. Married to you'll keep her out of th' hands of any of the other rotten bastards that pine for her.” he assured him.

“Thanks for agreeing to witness.” Jon exclaimed, patting his arm. “You're a good friend Grenn. I mean it.”

The big man – Aliser Thorne had nicknamed him Aurochs for a reason – shrugged nonchalantly. “Don't let it go to me head now!” he snorted.

* * *

The sound of footsteps drew their attention to the entrance to the courtyard.

Sansa stood half in the archway, her body bathed by the light of the moon. Her dress of choice – a mixture of red, white and grey – flowed gently behind her as she stepped towards the pair. Jon saw that the dress was embroidered with both direwolf and dragon; that brought a smile to his face.

She looked beautiful, of course. Her skin flawless and shining in the open air, her poise graceful and certain. Jon had always thought so – she was the true southern lady, the one meant to marry the King and rule as Queen, just as Lady Stark had always bragged. Once, long ago, she had believed in the stories of knights and chivalry and southern honour – he wasn't sure what was left of that Sansa Stark tonight, but he would strive to give her a good image.

“M'lady, you look wonderful if I may say.” Grenn whispered, bowing his head to her.

Sansa smiled at him, her eyes flickering to Jon as she did so. “Very kind of you, Ser Grenn. I only hope I am worthy for my King and husband-to-be.”

Jon scoffed, wiping his forehead. “Don't worry a-about me, Sansa. Just...be worthy for yourself. We don't h-have to do this if you don't -”

She laughed, the sound enough to make his heart skip a beat. Within moments she had a finger over his lips, a smirk on her face once more. “Jon. We've discussed this – and we are going to be wed. Now...do try to relax.” Turning to Grenn, she nodded. “Whenever you are ready, Ser Grenn.”

“Right, here goes.” Grenn mumbled, stepping up to stand in front of the pair. “Blimey, how did it start....OH! Right. Who comes before the old gods tonight?” he stated, staring to the two.

* * *

Sansa faced away from Jon and towards the tree. “Sansa, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods.” As she finished speaking, she turned her head to Jon. “Who comes to claim her?”

Jon exhaled, steadying himself as he recalled the words. “Jae – no, Jon – of the houses Targaryen and Stark, First of My Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. W-w-who gives her?”

“She comes here freely, of her own volition – to give herself in marriage.” Sansa recited, reaching down to grasp Jon's trembling hand. Normally in a ceremony dedicated to the Old Gods, the father of the bride would give her away to her new husband – failing that, another male relative. In this case, Jon and Sansa had decided she would give herself in marriage; a symbolic meaning behind their union.

Grenn nodded, clasping his hands together. “Lady Sansa. Do you take this man?” he gestured towards Jon.

“I take this man.” she whispered, turning to face Jon fully now. She nodded to him and they went down on one knee – so the old gods could better witness the ceremony, it was believed. Jon's whole body trembled as he struggled to calm himself. It was only Sansa's hands, grasped tightly to his own that helped to keep him stable.

After they rose, Jon looked around the courtyard. “I guess that's it, right?” he exclaimed, sighting in relief.

* * *

Grenn laughed, shaking his head. “You gotta give her your cloak, genius.”

Jon's eyes widened and he blushed, embarrassment creeping up his neck. “Oh. S-sorry...” he mumbled, taking his cloak off and wrapping it about Sansa; she merely giggled at him in the process, offering a mocking roll of her eyes.

“Now you're done.” Grenn added.

Sansa grasped his hands again, bringing them to her lips. Jon shivered as she kissed them. “Relax, Jon. It will be alright. Now...shall we continue?” she offered, nodding towards the archway. “We still have to...consummate things.”

“Just say the word, Sansa...and we-we don't have t-to do this...” Jon stammered, gritting his teeth together uncomfortably.

She laughed once more, pulling him towards the corridor. “I've already said we have to do this Jon – so come on, let's go!”

He'd been in many battles. Against the wildlings, the Others, the Boltons, the Lannisters and the forces loyal to Daenerys. Threats big and small – including some still-present ones that would be waiting for his return. No matter how close he came to death he always faced them with the same bravery and skill that he was raised with.

But the bedding ceremony – this terrified him more then any battle ever would.

* * *

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bedding ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is okay, I utterly suck at writing smut.

Jon shut the door to the royal apartments slowly and reluctantly; the part of him that still clung to his Stark identity shouted at him to run fleeing into the night, forgetting this whole thing ever happened. Yet he knew that was not an option – it never was.

He turned to Sansa, who stood near the bed removing her cloak. “Are you coming, Jon?” she asked, placing it upon the bed-side table.

Bile rose again in his throat as he struggled to acknowledge. It was not that he was inexperienced with women; his romps with Ygritte had taught him everything he needed to please any he decided to bed, but the whole concept of this was wrong.

 _It is not wrong_ , the dragon within hissed. The fire and lust burned strong in his stomach whenever it roared to the surface. It was an aspect of himself that Jon thought to extinguish; yet he had not been able to get the chance, even now.

Slowly he stepped into the bedroom, his eyes looking everywhere but to his new bride.

What would Father think? Lady Stark? Robb? Bran? Arya? A smile crossed his lips ever briefly as he thought of her; how he longed to go back to the simpler times of family. Even with Lady Stark's negative attitudes toward him, Jon cared nothing for her and everything for his little sister.

“Jon?” Sansa approached him, raising a brow. “You're still troubled about this, aren't you?” she nodded, offering a sympathetic smile.

“How can I not be?” he retorted, wiping more sweat from his already drenched brow, “ever since you were born....we have been siblings. Even though you and I were never truly close, I still knew you as my sister. This is wrong.”

Sansa did not laugh at him or mock his concerns. She merely ran a hand across his cheek, causing him to flinch. “It is an....awkward situation, I know.” she admitted, her smile growing sad. “yet after the...abuses and degradation the other men I was betrothed to have inflicted upon me, I know – or rather, believe – that this will be different.”

“Even still...” Jon admitted, his face still flush from her touch, “it..I will not....can't see us as man and wife. It is too difficult to imagine what Father would think -”

He resisted the urge to run as Sansa brought her hands to his shirt, deftly unbuttoning the bottom three within moments. Gasping, Jon tried to stop her – but she merely looked to him. “You cannot think that way, Jon.” she smiled as her hands worked their way up the shirt, “for the good of all of us...you have to consider me your wife. And I consider you mine husband.”

Slowly she rolled the shirt off his body, exposing the half-dozen scars from his knife wounds. Her eyes grew wide with fear momentarily as she ran a finger along them. “A token from my brothers at Castle Black.” he mumbled bitterly.

“I'm so sorry Jon, I wish I knew...” she whispered, tracing along one of the stitches.

He shrugged. “Don't worry about it. I...I know you're right, about what I must do. What we...we must do. For the realm.” This was the path they had chosen; his duty to the people began the moment the crown touched his head.

* * *

Sansa kissed his hand again, Jon's face growing even hotter. Her hands found the belt of his trousers, fingers unlacing it with ease. She looked to him again, face hopeful and ready. “Are you...ready, Jon?” she asked.

As he nodded he felt his trousers fall to the floor, revealing his small-clothes. Jon's legs shook violently as the cool air brushed over his now nearly-nude form, his cock throbbing uncomfortably beneath the silk. Despite his hesitation, the dragon was hard.

“Now...sit down.” she asked him, gesturing to the bed.

Jon did so, his legs groaning with relief as he allowed them respite. As he did, Sansa reached behind herself and fumbled with her dress. Within a moment, it fell to the floor in a heap at her feet. Unable to help himself, Jon inhaled sharply as she stepped towards him.

Sansa was always a beautiful woman; her body was curvy and fit in all the right places. Her skin glowed once again under the torchlight. She wore no small-clothes, only a pair of stockings that ran up to her knees. Jon saw several scars that littered her stomach and shoulders; a reminder of the trials she has endured, he knew.

He did his best to avoid looking at her womanhood; still he saw a small thatch of red hair between her legs, trim and narrow. His eyes failed him as he went up her chest, her breasts; somewhat larger then Ygritte's, went up and down with the rise and fall of her breathing.

His cock ached now; Jon knew he had to get rid of his small-clothes. He shed them in one swift moment as he rose to greet her, both husband and wife staring at one another, both completely nude and bared for them to see.

“Sorry...” he mumbled an apology for his cock.

Sansa laughed, her face – indeed, her whole upper body – growing red with heat. She ran a hand gently up his chest again, her fingertips brushing softly against the nipple on his right side. Jon gasped, shivers running through his body at the touch.

Her hand found his cock, and Jon had to struggle with his own arousal to avoid spilling himself there and then. Sansa was deft yet gentle as she had been with his chest; her fingers ran up and down his member a few times as she continued to blush.

After a moment, she took her hand away and kissed him softly; her lips full and kind, as her hand had been. He struggled to return the kiss properly as a husband should; the most touch he ever had with her as a child was to kiss her hand when they were playing “Come into My Castle”.

He noticed they both were breathing heavily now, his cock almost touching her navel given how close they were.

* * *

"We...we should get in bed...” he choked out, voice growing dry.

Sansa made no reply but to nod. The pair quickly sat down on the edge of the bed,.

“Jon?” she whispered after an awkward and altogether long silence. “I would ask...ask you if I could...be on-top of you?”

He nodded as she stood up, swinging his legs onto the bed as he lay back against the plush pillows. As he did so, Sansa pulled back one of the sheets, the bed having been unmade for the wedding, and crawled into the bed, positioning her legs on either side of Jon's own. She put her hands on his shoulders as she settled into position.

He felt his cock twitch again, the spasms more painful then arousing. “Sansa....” he whined, shivering intensely, “we...we don't have to-to do this...” he pleaded once more in a futile effort to end this, once and for all.

She shook her head once more, brushing her womanhood against the tip of his member. “Try not to think about it, Jon. Think of the realm.” she assured him, pulling the covers over-top of them as she lowered herself down onto him.

Jon gasped, both in agony and pleasure as he felt himself being forced inside of her. Sansa was tight, still a maid – and her sex was firmly trying to repel his efforts. Still, she persisted – and within moments he saw her maiden's blood running down the sides of his cock.

Sansa muffled a whimper as she did so, pulling the sheets down so they would cover their lower bodies.

* * *

“S....Sansa...” he moaned as she began to bounce up and down gently on-top of him. His whole body was hot, sweat pooling underneath him. The dragon within roared with pleasure, urging him on – but Jon tried to resist, the shame and embarrassment almost unbearable.

Abruptly she grasped one of his hands, bringing it to rest atop one of her heaving breasts. “T...Try to enjoy it, Jon...” she whimpered, a thin sheen of sweat visible on her face. “It...it won't be as-as bad this way...”

He knew she was right, but still struggled all the same. She grasped his remaining hand, putting it on her hip as she threw her head back, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her skin was smooth, almost like silk in his hand; he tried to pull away from her breast but she stopped him, squeezing it tight around the orb.

Even if he knew it was wrong, Jon felt the same pleasure he did during his romps with Ygritte. As he watched Sansa bounce atop him, that familiar desire stirred within his loins. It would not be long now until he spilled, hopefully managing to impregnate her on the first – and hopefully, last – try of their new marriage.

Sansa leaned down, pressing her lips against his own as she continued to move up and down on his cock. The kiss was fiery, passionate; he felt the hunger in her lips, the lust wafting off of her in torrents. As he kissed her back, Jon removed his hand from her breast and placed it on her other hip, which she noted with a smirk.

Sitting back up, Sansa bounced faster and faster, Jon's hands gripping her wildly. “Jon...” she moaned, running her hands through her locks of red hair, “This feels....feels good...”

“...Yes....gods, yes...” he gasped, arching his back as he felt the stirring at the base of his cock. “I....I'm...not going to l-last...Sansa...”

Atop him, Sansa nodded, her hands gripping the sheets tightly. “Do it, Jon...do your duty...”

* * *

His orgasm was a mixture of emotions; pleasure, shame and pain, all rolled into one. As he cried out, the shame began to build up within him; he'd just spilled inside of Sansa Stark, his sister. The pain was evident – he'd also been the man to take her maidenhead. Yet, the pleasure – it was almost too much for him to bear; it had been far too long since his release, and it felt as it did that first time with Ygritte.

As she felt him climax, Sansa collapsed in a heap beside him on the bed, gently rolling herself off his softening cock. The pair lay there, panting wildly as the scent of love making filled the air. Jon wiped his cock free of whatever seed was left on the sheet, while Sansa wrapped an arm around him and smiled. “I do believe tonight we...we have made your heir.” she said, kissing his cheek softly. “Your...your seed will quicken and I will be heavy with your – no, our – child in...in no time, Jon.”

Jon nodded, his head still a rush. “Great,” he managed to exhale, causing her to laugh.

“Do try to sound enthused, Jon. At least, pretend.” she smirked, pressing herself up against him.

 _You're a bastard, Snow._ The wolf scolded, bellowed and raged within.

 _A bastard who is King,_ the dragon roared, demanding superiority.

* * *

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the bedding, Sansa moves to protect Jon's position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always struggle writing Littlefinger, yet I hope it lives up to your expectations, dear readers. <3

Jon was still asleep when Sansa awoke, so it was easy for her to slip out of their now shared chambers and make her way down the hallway.

The Red Keep in the twilight hours was still and quiet, the hustle and bustle of the morning and afternoon replaced with an almost-eerie silence, something she was not used to – the only place that had come close to a reminder of such was the godswood in Winterfell.

She adjusted her dress and robe, making sure to look as proper as possible. Throwing her hair back over her shoulders, she nodded to herself as she rounded a corner, heading towards the wing of the palace reserved for the men of the Eyrie.

The guards at the door bowed respectfully to her as she strode past them – it was not considered strange for her to visit this part of the Keep; be it in conferences with Lord Royce or meetings with the various lords of the Vale in regards to their support for the crown.

However, she was here to meet with him. Baelish.

 _This must be how Jon felt about bedding me_ , she gulped as bile rose into her throat the closer she got to his chambers. She was thankful that he was gentle with her; her skin was unblemished and nary a mark was seen, allowing her to continue her betrothed facade.

* * *

She knocked once and waited a few moments before knocking again. The door opened with a start.

For a man of power, Baelish's chambers were quaint and rustic. The furniture was basic and shoddy, the walls bare of any finery – even the mockingbird of his House was an old and frayed banner, likely drawn up from the castle on the Fingers.

It was all a lie, of course. A way for him to throw off any potential opponents or rivals – play the role of a humble, poor and impoverished noble to better lure them in, to dismiss him as unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

“Good morning, my lord.” she offered, dipping low into a curtsy. The sooner this is done, the better. The lies – constant and all encompassing regarding him – were becoming almost too difficult for even she to bear.

Looking up from his seat, Petyr offered her a warm smile. “Good morning to you, dearest.” he beamed, swiftly on his feet and placing a wet kiss upon her hand before she could make a move. His eyes continued to bore into her, leering at every curve and blemish on her visible body. “I must confess – our morning visits were always so rare and seldom...it leaves me puzzled that you would wish for one now.”

“I mean not to puzzle you, my lord.” she smiled, lowering her hand quickly. “As Queen, I must keep myself abreast of my King's movements and actions, so as to better carry his agenda to his own supporters even here.”

Baelish nodded, still wearing the same lecherous smirk. “But of course, my lady. A responsible Queen you are – and you do not even wear the crown yet. A technicality, of course. Our King, long may be reign, will place it upon your head soon.”

And it will not be you. “May I sit?” she asked, smiling prettily. He nodded, pulling out a seat for her at his desk.

“I was simply compiling reports for our honorable and esteemed Lord Royce before he departs for the Westerlands.” Baelish noted, grasping a stack of parchments and neatly tucking them on one side of the desk.

* * *

Folding her hands in her lap, Sansa nodded – putting on her best thoughtful and inquisitive expression. She had to make him wonder what she was going to share, to keep him on edge and anxious to know. “The final phase of the war begins soon, my lord.” she reasoned, placing one hand on the desk, “just as soon as His Grace and the royal army take Casterly Rock – there will be no more to defy the crown.”

“Indeed – but even for all of the valiance of King Jon and our host, there is always the slim, remote and horrifying chance of severe loss of life.” he observed, shaking his head. “With the King in such a hurry to move on campaign, I find it...regrettable that he would deny his Queen a proper wedding and bedding ceremony.”

His language reminded her of the betrothal to Harold Hardying; a pig by any standards, the man was infamous for fathering bastards in every corner of the Vale. He'd done nothing but make lewd remarks to her in a fumbling attempt to take her maidenhead before the marriage was even sanctified. She was almost thankful that the Targaryens had approached the Vale when they had.

“The King only seeks a swift end to the war,” she replied with a shrug. “after which we may see to the logistics of ruling and succession.”

Petyr's eyes seemed to light up as he leaned forward. “Another tremendous task awaits His Grace, I know. So many officials here in the royal court are gone, either dismissed or executed. Many positions left unfilled – it is such a waste of resources to leave such posts empty, I feel.”

Sansa already knew his motive. While Jon is gone, put men of his choosing in place to better control the pieces on the board. It was almost predictable, how Littlefinger behaved – his chaos had a certain order to it, if one knew how to look. “I...have been in the process of seeking out such candidates for the King's court while he is away, but -”

“Say no more, Sansa.” Baelish clapped his hands together gleefully, “We can both solve His Grace's issue together. A list of men, noble and low-born both, proven loyal and competent. A good mix of skill and experience, as well as youth and wisdom. With the Queen's support, King Jon will return to find his court in good order, tended to by the crop of our great kingdom.”

It was still so strange to hear the man refer to her as Sansa – she had become so used to being Alayne that it was, frighteningly, almost consuming her own belief in who she was, before being spirited away to the capital and presented to Jon. _I am Sansa Stark,_ she told herself. “A wonderful idea, my lord. I am sure the King will be most grateful.”

Without prompting, he reached across the table and grasped her hand, squeezing it tight. “While he is away reclaiming the Westerlands, you will get your first true taste of power, my sweet. You, the scared little girl who once jumped at shadows have become something more. Something beautiful – and powerful.” he proclaimed, almost as though a proud parent.

 _I have,_ she thought. _Yet you will not live to see it._ With luck, Jon's seed would quicken in her womb and she would grow pregnant with his child before the campaign ended. She would create a dynasty – one free of the likes of Littlefinger. But for now, she had to continue to play the game. “My rise has only just begun, my lord.” she boasted, the appropriate smile crossing her lips.

“But of course it has, Sansa.” he grinned, folding his hands on the table.

* * *

A knocking at the door took their attention. “You are a popular man this morning, my lord.” she quipped dryly, moving quickly to open it. Standing before her was Aegon, who jumped back slightly at the sight of her.

“Oh – good morning, Lady Sansa.” he mumbled, bowing his head. “Apologies...I was not expecting you here.”

Sansa smiled, dropping into her usual respectful bow. “Prince Aegon – I was simply meeting with Lord Baelish about the Vale men and their troops. Nothing to worry about, I assure you – the King simply wished for an update.”

Aegon nodded. “Good, the sooner we can set out the better. Though, I have to meet with Lord Baelish about a personal matter – if you will excuse me.” he added, moving to enter the room. Sansa stepped deftly to the side, allowing him access.

As she left the room, she watched as Baelish offered her a subtle wink while she shut the door.

 _This is not good,_ she knew straight away.

* * *

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa talk about the Westerlands campaign. Some fluffy bits here. 
> 
> as an aside, ghost is hunting in the woods outside king's landing, so he is still around, just doing woof woof things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, the aegon/baelish thing will be brought up in later chapters. just wanted to add some Jonsa fluff here.

In his dreams he was a wolf. That was how it had been for as long as Jon could remember – the first experience being on the Wall, and lasting since.

It was not every night, of course; most nights he would sleep and dream of nothing at all. But the nights that it did happen, these wolf-dreams...they were something else to him entirely, something not at all like the waking world he was so used to.

He bounded along the green grasses outside the man city, the mud of fresh rain licking at his paws. The game was plentiful here – there was much prey to be had. His jaws slavered at the thought of bringing down another fat deer or elk; fresh blood was always best.

There were times he was seen by men, but the sight of him was enough to make the two-legs flee in terror back towards their city. Let them have the walls and the streets. I have the forest and the lands around it.

Something moved from his left. Perking his ears, he rushed toward the sound, bounding as fast as his fore-paws would carry him; launching himself out of the trees and into a fawn grazing in some shrubs. The impact hurt but the chunk he took out of the prey's neck likely hurt it more. A few moments of strangled cries and the animal breathed its last.

The blood and meat was sweet; basted with the scent of fear. His master was right to let him hunt here; no one would dare try their hands at stopping him, be they two legs or any of the prey that may feel daring...

* * *

“You don't want me to go,” Sansa sighed, rolling a set of stockings up her legs. “I can tell by the way you won't look at me, Jon.”

Jon sighed, shaking his head. “It's not that I don't want you to go, Sansa – I just...well, I worry about you. Perhaps unjustly, but still.” he explained, strapping Longclaw to his belt. In less then an hour he would ride out with the vanguard for the Westerlands, Aegon and the main host having left a half-day before.

And now he had heard it from Sansa's mouth that she intended to come with him. Both to the front lines and to his negotiations at the Crag. By all rights, he could forbid her to leave the Red Keep, even keep her under guard – no one would disobey his orders. But that was not him.

Sansa finished with her stockings and smoothed her dress out, the material falling around her legs once more. “I appreciate it, Jon – more then you know, but it is misplaced. I've endured far worse then being within enemy lines.”

That much was true, he knew. Having been passed from Lannister to Baelish only served as a revolving door of abusive guardians for her; physically and mentally, she had been tormented by almost all around her. “I....” he began, stopping himself as the words failed in his throat. What could he say to make this better? There was nothing at all – nothing would take away the pain of the last few years. Nothing would erase the trauma she had experienced.

So many in her life had promised to protect her. Father, Lady Catelyn, even Robb – yet they had failed.

* * *

He turned towards her, a pained expression on his face. Seeing this, she rose from her seat and walked to him, taking his hands in her own. Sansa cradled them, the warmth in her fingers shooting up his tired and aching bones like a hot bath.

“Jon, I know what you are trying to do and I am thankful.” she told him, stroking her fingers idly over his own; a stark contrast as she felt the wrinkled and tired digits, “but the world is...it is not kind to any of us. I learned that my own way these past years, just as you did. I want to be of help to you, not a trophy to be put on display. I know the intricacies of ruling that you may not.”

That much is true, he reflected. “I never asked for this, Sansa. You know that...I would much rather us being home in the North, with Rickon. Looking for Bran and...and Arya.” he mumbled, eyes growing wet at the thought of his little sister, lost somewhere in the world – alone, wondering if anyone was looking for her. “but this is the path we've chosen. I just feel....wrong.”

Sansa raised a brow. “Wrong?” she asked.

The words came rushing out of his mouth before he could try to stop them. “As a girl, you were always the lady. Proper, beautiful – everything. You would marry the Prince and become Queen one day, ruling over Westeros and birthing sons and daughters of a royal dynasty. You would be happy and hale and hearty...” he said with a sigh. “Instead...well, instead you've been forced into marriage after unhappy marriage, abused and mistreated – only to end up being passed off to a second-rate bastard who was forced to take the job.”

She raised a hand to her mouth, a flush creeping over her cheeks. She couldn't believe what she was hearing – especially from Jon. Was this how he truly felt? Long ago, perhaps – the tales of Florian and Jonquil had been stories she wished for – but those days were gone. Her prince in shining armour stood right here.

Reaching up with her free hand, she cupped his cheek and kissed him, placing her other hand around his waist – as expected, he tried to pull away at first, but her grip stopped him. His lips were closed and unwelcoming, but she persisted – and finally, they opened with a gasp.

Sansa felt a hand creep around her back as well, realizing that he was doing the same thing he was.

* * *

After what felt like an eternity, he broke the kiss and looked away. “You...deserve better, Sansa.” he lamented as she turned his head back towards her gaze.

“I've found my prince, Jon. After all this time.” she smiled. “I want us to be happy. And...together, we will be.”

Jon shook his head. “I just can't -” he protested weakly.

“You can and you will, Jon Snow.” she teased, noticing that he had yet to take his hand off her back.

That brought a smile to his face. “So...are you ready? We ride in the hour.” he asked, his free hand now holding her own, just as tightly as she had held his.

She nodded. “Always.”

It was in that moment, Sansa told herself, that Baelish's downfall had begun. She wanted to tell Jon of his scheming and lies, but had no way to prove it – it was this reason she played his games, trying to lure him into a situation he could not triumph over. It would result in both her and Jon's safety – safety from his ever tightening web.

He thought her a dog with no teeth. _I am a Stark of Winterfell, and no one will frighten me again._

* * *

 

 


End file.
